


H Is For Hairboy

by maaaaa



Series: Puffer Bellies [2]
Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23556124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Summary: Jim and Blair deal with day-to-day life after Blair suffers a brain injury.
Series: Puffer Bellies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695412
Kudos: 7





	H Is For Hairboy

**Author's Note:**

> My “Puffer Bellies” series was written between September 2007 and July 2009. It is a WIP that was never quite finished. The stories stand pretty well on their own, but should be read in order.

“You don’t have to let your hair grow out as long as it was before,” Jim suggested artfully. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Blair struggled with combing through the tangled mass of curls. He continued fixing breakfast, hoping the observation came off as nonchalant.

Blair was sitting at the table, tugging the comb hard enough to make Jim wince, intent on his task. Apparently he must’ve neglected to use either the conditioner or the de-tangler Jim had set out for him.

He shrugged, not taking Jim’s comment negatively. “I know, but then whaddya think H will call me?”

Jim breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that the remark didn’t start a closed off, shut down cycle. He just hated that Blair had to tussle over daily routines, and maybe keeping the mop short, at least for a while, wouldn’t be a bad idea.

And then Blair’s offhand answer sunk in.

Jim walked to the end of the kitchen island and leaned hipshot against it; the bowl of pancake batter tucked under one arm, still stirring. He tried not to frown quizzically, or grin like a loon, or give any impression at all that Blair’s question was out of the ordinary.

“You know who H is?” he asked casually.

Blair tilted his head, giving Jim a flummoxed look. Then he nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah.” Then he nodded a little more enthusiastically, sending a fine shower of droplets flying through the air. “Yeah, I do.” Then a deadpan smile, accompanied by a mischievous glint in his eyes that was heart-achingly reminiscent of the old Blair, turned on. “H is an easy name to remember.”

Jim’s heart skipped a beat, and then his mouth cracked into a half smile as he snorted in agreement, “That’s true, you little smart ass.” He stopped stirring and set the bowl on the table. He pulled out a chair and sat across from Blair.

“Tell me what you remember about H,” he encouraged carefully. “Tell me what he called you.”

Blair stopped what he was doing, not bothering to remove the comb from his hair. He started tracing circular patterns on the tabletop, a motion Jim was becoming quite familiar with. It always meant something was right under the surface in Blair’ brain, and he needed the action to coax it out...it was like a subdued version of the flamboyant hand gestures he used to employ when on a roll.

Sometimes Blair would say things, like now, about H…casual things that just popped out of the jumble his memory had become. But more often than not, it was as if it was that particular memory’s turn to rotate to the top and before he could pin it down and force it to remain, it just disappeared again.

Jim never let himself get too hopeful when it happened.

Blair remembered Simon without any problem, and had from the start, just as he remembered Jim...and usually Joel. But when others from the bullpen showed up for a pizza night or to just shoot the breeze, he tended to hang close to Jim, his skittish memory taunting him, leaving him frustrated.

Naomi had been devastated when Blair didn’t recognize her, even after an evening of photos and stories from his childhood. Jim couldn’t imagine the crushed feelings she’d gone through and how hard it was for her to relinquish Blair’s keeping to him. He was damn sure he wouldn’t have had the courage to do it if their roles had been reversed.

Blair worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “H’s come over a few times. He works with you and Simon.” He slowly tore his eyes from the invisible tracings and looked over at Jim.

Jim smiled warmly. “That’s right, Chief. Anything else?” he prompted.

Blair hesitated, frowning at Jim, who held his breath.

“Are we having pancakes for breakfast or not?” Blair asked, staring now at Jim’s idle hand, still clutching the mixing spoon.

So close.

“You betcha, Junior,” Jim responded easily. He went back into the kitchen and prepared the griddle. “You wanna pour the juice?” he tossed back over his shoulder. “I’ll help with your hair, if you want me to, after we eat,” he added.

Blair shuffled into the kitchen and went to the fridge. He pulled out the pitcher of orange juice, holding it by the handle in one hand, and cradling the bottom with the other. After setting it on the table, he went back and took two glasses out of the cupboard.

“You wanna drink your juice out of beer mugs?” Jim asked. He cocked his head and jutted his chin at the still open cupboard door. “Juice glasses are the smaller ones on the second shelf.”

“These are okay,” Blair answered, already pouring.

“Okay, it’s just that we usually---,” Jim tried to continue.

Blair cut him off by raising his voice mulishly, something he rarely did. “I’m really thirsty,” he stated stubbornly.

Jim ignored the outburst and poured the pancake batter onto the griddle into six neat round puddles. He listened in as Blair finished pouring the juice, and then took several long, loud gulps from one of the glasses. Jim kept his back to Blair, to hide the smirk on his face.

As he flipped the last pancake, Blair came up next to him. He mimicked Jim’s earlier stance, leaning against the counter next to the stove. He stayed back far enough to satisfy Jim’s edict of being careful around the appliance, especially when it was hot and in use.

“Hairboy,” Blair said quietly. “H calls me Hairboy.”

The spatula slipped from Jim’s hand and landed on the floor. He looked at Blair and broke into a broad grin.

“’Cuz I have, had, lotsa hair,” Blair stated seriously. “Down to here, right?” he indicated his shoulder, “So if I don’t let it grow out, what’s he gonna call me?” he added innocently.

Jim reached out and loosened the comb from Blair’s hair, pulling it free. He mussed the curls, fending off Blair’s hands as they tried to bat his away.

“You’ll always be Hairboy to H,” Jim answered as he settled for the quick hug Blair let him have. “Just like you’ll always be Chief to me.”

“Are those gonna burn?” Blair asked, looking at the pancakes and wrinkling his nose. “I don’t like ‘em burned.”

“Not on your life, Chief,” Jim answered with a serene smile as he plucked a clean spatula from overhead and slid the golden brown pancakes onto the serving plate. “Let’s eat.”

Blair carried the platter to the table while Jim snagged the maple syrup and butter. Jim encouraged Blair to cut his pancakes with the side of his fork, rather than tackling the finesse required for using both fork and knife, by ignoring his own knife. It worked like a charm.

Blair gobbled away as Jim gave the morning paper a once over.

“Maybe we should go see H later today,” Jim proposed as he started clearing the table. “I bet he’ll be surprised to see how much your hair’s grown.”

He put the dishes in the sink and turned on the taps, expecting Blair to join him, as he always did, to debate who should wash and who should dry.

“How about it, Chief?” Jim asked as he grabbed the dish soap from under the sink.

His question was met with silence. He turned to look at Blair, dreading the words he knew were coming, smiling nonetheless.

Blair looked puzzled, the memory lost. But Jim could tell he was trying hard to work it out.

He finally gave up, and responded, “Who’s H?”


End file.
